Frank steadies him under his good shoulder and helps him to the backseat of his car.
'I haven't sat in back of one of these in a long time,' he jokes.
Angry faces press closer to the squad cars and Frank is ecstatic to see the yellow paramedic truck racing toward her. She turns Munoz over to one EMT and follows his partner to Floyd. At least who she thinks is Floyd. She wants to ask him, but he's unconscious.
Chapter 29
A sultry dusk has settled over L.A. by the time Frank and Garcia are cut loose from the Glass House. They have spent the day at headquarters, taking drug tests, filling out reports and talking into tape recorders. They are the only ones riding the elevator and Garcia yawns. 'I can't remember where I parked my car.'
'I'm close,' Frank says. 'We can drive around until we find it.'
'Thanks. I don't want to spend my night here too.'
'Ever been up to the sixth floor?' Frank asks as the doors open.
Garcia shakes her head. 'Not for anything like this.' They circle down two levels until they find her car. Stopping behind it, Frank tells the cop, 'You did good today.'
Garcia ducks her head at the praise. 'I just hope Moonie's okay.'
'Old Moon.' Frank flips a hand on the steering wheel. 'He probably stepped into the round just to get some time off.'
They'd gotten word that Munoz had a through-and-through that missed his lungs and neatly exited a centimeter left of his shoulder blade. Tore up some muscle but he'd be fine. Floyd was okay too— minor nerve damage that had left him temporarily incapacitated. Frank had been relieved to hear that, too, hoping a healthy Floyd would be less likely to instigate a tort suit against the department.
Garcia smiles. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she seems reluctant to leave Frank's car.
'Do what they say,' Frank advises. 'Talk to the shrink. Even if he's an idiot, it's good to spill your guts to someone you're never gonna see again. Spill it at BSU and leave it there, or it'll come back and bite you in the ass. It's gonna bite you anyway but it'll go down easier if you get it out.'
Garcia's nodding. 'Yeah, okay.' She still doesn't make to leave.
'You okay?' Frank asks.
'Yeah.' '
'I'll give you a ride home. It's no big.'
'No, I'm okay.' Seeming to marshal her strength, the young woman adds, 'It's just been a hell of a day.'
'Yeah, it has. Go home, take a shower, get some sleep. Try to.'
'I keep seeing his face, like a picture, you know, all framed in broken glass. I just keep seeing it.'
'Yeah. You will for a while.'
'After I cuffed him and Haystack got there I had to throw up. It kinda hit me then, you know?'
Frank nods, leaving silence for Garcia to fill.
She does, flashing a weak smile. 'I guess we were lucky, huh?'
'Lucky, plus you did some damn good shooting. You were like Jane-fucking-Wayne out there. I see you doing that again, I'll get you busted back down to probation.'
Garcia opens the door, thanking Frank for the ride. Frank waits until Garcia pulls out of her space then follows her from under the building.
The Alibi is only of couple blocks away and Frank gets there on autopilot. The soft evening riffles her hair and she smirks. 'I should get a fucking Oscar.'
When she was dispensing advice and letting Garcia talk, she felt like she was outside herself looking in. She was two Franks—one compassionate and supportive, the other detached and mechanical. She can dispense 'atta girls' and sage counsel to her staff but she can't muster it for herself. Bottom line is, she's an awful hypocrite. She should be doing exactly what she'd told Garcia to do, but instead of talking the day out, she will ooze into a shot glass and clamp her mouth shut. Keep it all in. Stoic the Magnificent rides again. She knows today is going to kick her ass farther down the line, but right now it's hard to give a fuck. She'll worry about farther down the line when she gets there.
Chapter 30
Tuesday morning Frank has the shakes so bad she can't hold her coffee during the drive to work. When she walks into the station Romanowski slams the desk phone down and yells her name. Everything is too loud.
'This is a citizen with good timing,' the sergeant booms, waving a slip of paper. 'Got a cold one for ya.'
Frank snatches the paper and heads upstairs. She used to get to work half an hour, an hour early. Now she slides in at 0558 like the rest of the squad. Jill's late, as usual, so Frank hands Lewis the paper. She's paired Jill and Lewis during Johnnie’s absence, and after a five-minute briefing the detectives head to the address Romanowski gave down. Frank follows in her Honda, hoping the drive will clear her head. The chain of events from a couple drinks at the Alibi to a fullblown drunk is unclear. She doesn't remember getting home but must have driven herself, since the Honda was parked safely in the driveway this morning. The thought that she might kill herself while under the influence doesn't scare Frank, but the thought of taking someone else out with her makes her stomach roll over.
The nine-three detectives pull up to another broken body on the pavement. Hispanic male. No ID. He looks like a wino. When the coroner tech turns the body, Frank, Lewis and Jill spot the drag marks. It's a dump job. Jill and Lewis moan at the same time.
Frank tells Lewis, 'It's a religious case,' and Jill rolls her eyes.
'Huh?' Lewis screws up her face.
'Gonna take an act of God to clear this one.'
'Shee-it,' Lewis complains.
There is no evidence to collect, no witnesses to question, and Frank is soon headed back to the office. She stops at Shabazz for bean pie and a large coffee. The food eases the worst of her hangover and she drives south toward Freeman Medical Center. She still has questions for Floyd.
She finds him in a room with a large Asian family crowded around an old woman. The television blares news. Floyd is on his back, eyes closed.
'Hey.'
When he sees Frank, he closes them again. She waits, reading his mood. He seems resigned, as he should be. After the hospital he's going straight into lockup, probably until he's walking with a cane.
He looks at her again and she asks, 'Why'd you shoot?'
'Didn't want to go back in.'
'I wasn't gonna bring you in. I just wanted to talk.'
''Bout what?'
Holding up the well-worn pictures of Trevor and Ladeenia, she scours Floyd's face. It's blank, then changes to puzzlement.
'That's those two kids got murdered. I already been asked about that.'
'Not by me. I want to hear your story.'
'Man.' He sighs like a tire losing air. 'Ain't nothin' to it.'
'Humor me,' Frank tells him. 'You ain't goin' nowhere.'
He sighs again, bringing a forearm over his eyes. 'What do you wanna know?'
Frank tries tripping him up, like she did Noah's other suspects. Like McNabb's, Floyd's story is consistent straight down the line. She's done with her questioning when she spies a tear gliding down his temple.
'What did you do that you thought I was gonna bring you in for?'
She watches his throat work as he swallows tears. He shrugs and winces at the motion. 'Coulda been anything. I ain't no choirboy.'
She nods and moves to the door.
Emotion makes his voice shaky, but the words are compelling enough when he calls after her, 'But I ain't killed no children.'
After putting in her time at the office, Frank bolts at two sharp. She's going home to work out. No stops at
